


Unknown

by Jemisard



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 14:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemisard/pseuds/Jemisard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needed to prove it wasn't all set in paper and canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unknown

It was a desperate denial of something bigger than both of them.

It had started with just the first uncomfortable twist in his belly, the realisation that it wasn’t just his mind that wanted a fix and wanted it now. As he felt it, he saw the other man reach to his own belly, frowning slightly.

If he was honest, it might have started the night he and Simone had turned up, and he had been struck by the horrible familiarity of the intense dark gaze that he had painted over and over again and somehow still missed the warmth in.

Or maybe, it started the night he realised that his girlfriend had left him for the man with the dark eyes and he desperately wanted to know if it was nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with the look that turned on him this night with all that intensity.

Or, just maybe, it started with the words “I believe you can paint future,” when the one person who was meant to believe him didn’t.

It didn’t matter when it might have started, because it honestly only started like this when he had stared at the painting they had made and realised that they had painted a girl’s death together and nothing would undo that future.

And he had to prove that the future wasn’t set in stone. So he had leant over the trembling nurse and kissed him, wrapping the blanket around the two of them.

Simone kissed like he owed her every kiss and every touch. She controlled and commanded each touch of lips. He was out of control and she was the stability their love making centred on.

From the moment he wrapped his arms around Peter and felt the hard, desperate kiss push up against him, he knew he was in control. Peter clung, fingers tight on Isaac’s shoulders as the kiss deepened.

Everything of significance had been painted in these walls. But not this. This was a promise. These hot kisses, the cool body willingly pressing into his own and strong hands that rubbed against him were all unforeseen. New. Unknown.

And somewhere between the easel and his bed, between Peter’s shirt being in the way and Isaac pushing the other man down and crawling up him, it stopped being a about denial. Some time, when Peter’s legs were tangled with his and their hands were laced together around their hard flesh, Isaac forgot about the paintings.

When he woke up the first time, he’d only been dozing for a few minutes, head resting on Peter’s shoulder as they both came off the high. It was a high - Isaac should know - and while heroin brought the fear of what might be seen, Peter was comfortable and hot and willing beneath him. More than willing, his legs sliding up around Isaac’s waist. He was as desperate as Isaac felt, the kisses hot and hard as they moved against and then with one another.

And this was unknown too. The hard body under his, the deep cries and gasps, the strength of the arms and legs that clung to him as he moved, the voice driving him on, it was all perfect, spur of the moment.

When he came, it was when Peter was twisting and tensing under him and wordlessly crying out. And nothing was as good as feeling his entire body letting go, riding the other man’s orgasm out with his own.

Except maybe the way that Peter held him close afterwards, desperate in some other way that Isaac didn’t like so he softly kept kissing that crooked mouth until they were more asleep than awake.

The second time he woke up, predawn light was spilling across the loft, casting the room into shades of grey. Even the vibrant reds of painted coloured blood seemed washed out as he gazed across his studio and then back to where Peter still slept beside him.

He brushed back Peter’s hair, smiling at the smudges of paint and charcoal on his face. Peter murmured and pushed the sheet down off his back, sighing and settling again.

Isaac felt cold dread crawl up his spine. He pushed himself away, walking backwards across the floor, staring numbly at the man in his bed.

He was rummaging through the pile of sketchbooks before he realised it, back before last month, or the one before, back six months and back to before the nightmare of the bus accident.

The book fell open to the double page he was dreading.

Peter Petrelli lay sprawled in his bed, sheets rumpled around his legs and waist. A new panel, and Peter stretched and as Isaac looked up, he looked from perfect, warm brown eyes to perfect, warm brown eyes.


End file.
